Here is a fond farewell, you flakes of peeling paint on the old white door, closed forever. Adieu stamps and stationery, quaint reminders of yesteryear. There is no profit in village gossip
The sky is an ocean at night and the bare trees like creaking rigging, clawing at the clouds, ripping them to watery streamers. They dissipate like spray, leaving just a lick of rain
I always do this. I must learn to break this habit: I never see things through. If chance should have it that I must choose something dull or something new,